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"What's this?" she asked, as Oliver pressed something into her palm.
"I found it in the garden earlier," he said, showing her the crushed fourleaf clover. "For luck."
I don't need luck, I have you, she wanted to say, but she knew Oliver would think it was cheesy. Instead, she accepted the flower and tucked it into her sari with a smile.
"Shall we?" he asked, when the bhangra pop ended and the orchestra switched to a waltzy version of the Beatles' "Norwegian Wood." He led her out to the middle of the dance floor located in the grand ballroom just off the courtyard. The room was festooned with floating Chinese lanterns, delicate orbs of light that looked incongruous against the French classical architecture. There were only a few people dancing, and Schuyler worried they would look conspicuous as the youngest people on the dance floor by several decades.
But she had always loved this song, which wasn't so much a love song as the opposite of one. "I once had a girl, or should I say, she once had me." And she loved that Oliver wanted to dance. He held out his arms and she stepped into them, resting her head on his shoulder as he circled her waist. She wished dancing was all they had to do. It was so nice just to live in the moment, to enjoy holding him so closely, to pretend for a little while that they were merely two young people in love and nothing else.
Oliver led her smoothly through every dance, a product of mandatory ballroom lessons from his etiquette-obsessed mother. Schuyler felt as graceful as a ballerina in his confident direction.
"I never knew you could dance," she teased.
"You never asked," he said, twirling her around so that her silk pants floated prettily around her ankles.
They danced through two more songs, a catchy polonaise and a popular rap song, the music a schizophrenic mix of high and low, Mozart to M.I.A., Bach to Beyonce. Schuyler found she was actually enjoying herself. Then the music stopped abruptly, and they turned to see what had caused the sudden silence.
"The Countess of Paris, Isabelle of Orleans," the orchestra conductor announced, as an imposing woman, very beautiful for her age, with coal black hair and a regal bearing entered the room. She was dressed as the Queen of Sheba, in a headdress made of gold and blue lapis. Her right hand held an immense gold chain, and standing at the end of it was a black panther wearing a diamond collar.
Schuyler held her breath. So that was the countess. The prospect of asking that woman for shelter suddenly seemed more daunting than ever. She had expected the countess to be plump and elderly, frumpy even, a little old lady in a pastel suit with a bunch of corgis. But this woman was sophisticated and chic; she came across as remote and distant as a deity. Why would she care what happened to Schuyler?
Still, maybe the countess only looked imperious and inaccessible. After all, this party could not have been easy for her. Schuyler wondered if the countess was sad to have lost her home. The H'tel Lambert had been in her family for generations upon generations. Schuyler knew the recent global financial crisis had humbled even the grandest houses and the richest families.
The Hazard-Perrys had invested well: Oliver told her they had gotten out of the market years before it crashed. But all over the Upper East Side, Schuyler heard, jewelry was being auctioned, art appraised, portfolios liquidated. It was the same in Europe. None of the other Blue Blood families could even afford to buy the Lambert. It had to go to a corporation, and it did.
The countess waved to her guests as the ballroom exploded in applause, Schuyler and Oliver clapping as heartily as the rest. Then Isabelle took her exit, the music started up again, and the tension in the room abated. A collective exhale.
"So what did the baron say?" Schuyler asked, as Oliver twirled her away from the center of the room.
The Baron de Coubertin was in the countess's employ and served his lady as human Conduit, as Oliver was to Schuyler. Anderson had told them a meeting with the countess could only be facilitated by the baron. He was the key to an appeal. Without his permission, they would never be able to even get within a hairsbreadth of the countess. The plan was for Oliver to introduce himself the minute the baron arrived at the party, waylaying him as he stepped off the boat.
"We'll find out soon enough," Oliver said, looking apprehensive. 'don't look up. He's coming our way.
ER 9
Bliss
The Visitor was annoyed. Bliss felt his irritation like a blister. It was afternoon, as far as she could tell. The days slipped by one after the other so easily that it was hard to figure out what time it was, but Bliss tried to keep track as best she could. When he was quiet, it was night, and when she could sense his awareness, it was day.
Usually she would get a glimpse of the outside world when he woke up. Like yesterday morning, with the white shutters. Then the blinds would shut again. Only when he let his guard down was Bliss able to get a quick image of the outside world.
Like now, for the Visitor had been taken by surprise.
One minute they were striding through the house, and the next they were smack in the middle of a bunch of animals: grotesque and pitiful. Ugly.
What was this? What was she looking at? Then she realized she was seeing the world through his eyes. Only when she pushed herself a little harder did she see that they were just among an ordinary group of people. A lady wearing a beige suit and sunglasses was ushering a family through the foyer. They looked like the typical Hamptons crowd, Dad in a pastel alligator shirt with a white tennis sweater over his shoulders, Mom in lavender seersucker, the kids, two boys, in miniature versions of Dad's outfit.
"Oh, hello... I'm sorry. We were told the owners wouldn't be here for the showing," the lady in the business suit said with a fake smile. "But since you're here, do you know if your father's contractor is still available to complete the renovation?"
Then it all went black and the image disappeared again, even though Bliss had been able to hear the question. Bobi Anne had been in the midst of renovating before she died. The Hamptons house was supposed to be completed by now, but when they returned from South America, Forsyth had ordered the construction ceased. The entire back half of the house was missing. In its place was a big hole in the ground covered in plaster dust, sawdust, and plastic.
The senator had returned to New York only to discover that he had been cleaned out in the latest financial upheaval. Some kind of Ponzi scheme, Bliss understood; a total scam. She wasn't sure, except that whatever it was, it had been enough to get Forsyth out of Conclave duties for a while. She couldn't quite tell what had happened, since it was around this time that the Visitor began to take over completely; but she had a feeling they were bankrupt.
Forsyth was trying to get a loan from the Committee to tide them over, but it would not be enough. His salary as a U.S. senator was trifling. The Llewellyns, like many Blue Blood families, lived on investment returns.
And apparently those investments were gone.
